


Misfire

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Spitroasting, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Why wait to start another round?





	Misfire

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “wouldn't it be better to leave a week or two so people can fill other prompt in round six, and then open round 7?” not-really misfire prompt on [the FFXV kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=8926091#cmt8926091).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He can already hear the noises drifting through the night sky as he wanders down the ragged path towards their tent. The dust-worn plains are empty, nothing man-made but the Regalia for eons, but Ignis still finds it disquieting to hear their personal business so blatantly available. He thinks of telling them to quiet, but the closer he gets, the more he knows he’ll only join in. Then he’s ducking through the open flap, and sure enough, a rush of _heat_ instantly slithers through him.

Prompto is sprawled out across their sleeping bags, wearing nothing but his single wristband, just as Ignis left him. His pale skin is flushed with clear arousal, face spotted with blush-covered freckles and stomach spotted with his own release. He’s slick with sweat, shivering and writhing, impaled on both ends and trying vainly to thrust onto each one. Gladiolus’ thick cock is buried in his pert rear, Noctis’ sizable shaft just barely visible between his pink lips. Noctis still wears his one glove, Gladiolus his socks, and that’s about all. As Ignis pulls the tent flap closed again, he begins to feel overdressed and overheated. 

Gladiolus gives a rough grunt as he drives Prompto down into the sleeping bag below, but Prompto, ever resilient, struggles back up to his knees as Gladiolus withdraws. His spine looks almost painfully arched in his attempt to appease both positions, his head buried in Noctis’ lap. Noctis runs his fingers fondly through Prompto’s disheveled hair, and Prompto moans lewdly at the touch. Every sound he makes is muffled, but nonetheless alluring. 

Ignis sighs over them, “This is _not_ what my stamina-boosting meals were meant for.”

Noctis ignores the statement completely, as he always does with things he doesn’t care to hear, and he lazily drawls instead, “Did you find the ingredients you were looking for?” He punctuates his statement with a shallow thrust into Prompto’s open mouth. Prompto makes a near-choking sound but greedily sucks out more. Ignis can see it when his cheeks hollow out and hear the wet squelching sounds. It’s nothing to the brutal way Gladiolus drives into him, slow but _deep_.

Ignis admits, “Yes.”

And Gladiolus grinds a particularly hard thrust inside, groaning, “So join in already. This’ll be the fifth and sixth time we fill him up tonight, but I think he can take a seventh.” Gladiolus even slaps Prompto’s slender hip, and Prompto tries to yelp, but the aborted cry only makes Noctis shiver with delight. Ignis doesn’t know where to look. They’re all so _tantalizing_. 

But Ignis is the reasonable one. He tries to put the welfare of his lovers before his own desires, as he’s done with his prince for his whole life. He remains seated where he is, fully dressed, and chides, “We should wait a week or two before we attempt another round. Let him get used to six fills in a row first.” Even when the three of them are on Prompto at once, so many turns requires at least two sessions in a row, and more likely, given that they each want a warm hole to fuck, it actually stretches out to three. Ignis’ cooking is good, but it’s not _that_ good.

Subtly spoiled as ever, Noctis murmurs, “Feels too good to wait.” His hips continue to roll forward. Their movement is mesmerizing.

“Yeah,” Gladiolus agrees, just as intoxicating in the way his chiseled body bends over their little ball of sunshine. “Prom’s a hard worker—he can take it.”

Prompto makes a stifled noise that probably stands for approval. The vibrations of it seem to be the final straw for Noctis—he tosses his head back and hisses as he comes, ample seed spilling over Prompto’s glossy lips. Prompto pulls back enough to let it drizzle down his chin, then dives suddenly forward to swallow back the rest. Ignis has never been quite sure if Noctis’ excessive seed is truly thanks to his status-effecting meals, or just a royal trait.

Noctis is barely slumping down by the time Prompto pulls off, licking his lips and Noctis’ spent cock for the last remains. Prompto looks utterly _wrecked_ , used and dizzy, but he still hoarsely asks Ignis, “Round seven? Please?”

Ignis hesitates. But Noctis orders, “Do it.”

And Ignis never could resist his king.


End file.
